I have just finished reading the poem posted by Terry Sedgwick. Doing so has filled my head with questions. Although there are many, not surprisingly, each and every question is identical .... When in God's name can I vote Sedgwick off this blog? It's Sunday already for Christ's sake -- surely the time has come to rid this space of Sedger's incoherent, pretentious, narcissistic rambling. Mr. Hughes - How much longer do I have to wait?

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The photo posted by "Not So Big Brother" has much touched my heart. When so touched I am moved to take up the quill to pen my wistful and deepest thoughts in poetry. In the full knowledge that this uplifting pearl is cast unappreciated before the swine within this house, I publish and will not be damned.

"TO THE DARK WOMBAT"
(After the Bard's Sonnets)

Cry for the stiffness of the earlobe.
The turtles are fallen and the rain stands still.
May you be always able to find
admirers to throw tiny pickles at you.

Oh, how your melodic chewing of cotton balls stills my heart.
Your arms lengthen daily like the edges of a festering table.
Your face is like a perfectly shaven tennis ball.
The glow of your teeth exudes the courage of raw liver.
Your love is like 1000 caucasian carnivores
playing mumblety peg with an eggplant.
The spark of intelligence in your blinking eyes
glows like an electrocuted axe-murderess.

Wallets of fur would bombard a triassic keychain
rather than face dialysis in your equable fishtank.
The goats you buy shed a perfume
that makes Marxism so terribly clear to me.
I must demand your pleasing chin!
How it passes there and back again
like a leopard searching for its misplaced frontal lobes.

You have not yet reached the height of your depravity.
You are a banana moon subverting the sun.
I love your eyes, but only with ketchup.
Your dashingly colored toupee twists my right boot
into a state of ennui with the speed and dexterity
of many lemon meringue-coated conquistadors.
Redux. Redux. Redux.

Your face does bend even
the most anorexic mirror into
a sensuous playground of muscular spasms.
You are truly a goddess of disturbed tranquility!

Optical delusions still themselves
when you pass by in convexing pomp and sacral trance.
Your eyelids reflect and refract the turgid limnations
of virgin eels trapped in the flickering paralysis
of time not well spent.
Sound barricades itself into
rolling clouds of reminiscence when you speak.

LATEST Not-So-Big-Brother PHOTOGRAPHS!

Terry Sedgwick knuckles down for the long haul and says a tearful farewell to his loved ones.

Following the departure, Sedgwick spent several hours under his duvet making grunting noises, only to emerge with a wan complexion and a large grey stain on the tip of his beard.

PETER COOPER IS CALLED TO THE DIARY ROOM:

Peter, as one of the first contestants you have been a consistent and valued poster during the first few days. Unlike some of the other contestants you haven't fallen foul of back-stabbing and name-calling to draw public attention to yourself. In many respects this is reminiscent of Sandy in the Channel 4 version of Big Brother. You don't have any intentions of peeing in the dustbin and then buggering off over the roof in the future have you?

That is a very good question. Too good in fact. So superbly fantastically amazingly good it really does deserve an answer...

Since I am not a man for climbing unless it is a very sheer rockface, and since I have no affinity to dustbins, I don't intend on either. However, I do intend to fight for lower taxes, a paedophile registry, and some soup kitchens. I intend on using all of them atleast once, if only for a laugh.

Now, I heard there was a game of bingo about outside. May I go now? I love bingo with a shot of Coca-Cola...

Thank you Peter. Enjoy your Bingo Session. (Incidentally...I've got a fiver on you to win at the bookies. Hopefully you'll claim the prize and I won't have to pay out as much for the postage.)

NOT-SO-BIG-BROTHER-CALLS-SEDGWICK-TO-THE-DIARY-ROOM!

Terry... this is your first visit to the diary room...how are you finding life in the Not-So-Big-Brother House so far without your wombats for company?

"Not So Big Brother", I am bearing up relatively well without my four legged friends. Being banged up in the Not-So-Big-Brother House I still feel like I'm surrounded by animals, albeit no way as cute, cuddly or as accommodating as my marsupial harem. However I do worry for my little treasures out there fending off the advances of challengers to my role as the dominant male. The thought of S***v L******e prowling the perimeters of Chateau Sedgwick waiting for the sentinels I have left behind to guard the herd to be momentarily distracted by a passing buck naked echidna then poncing on one of my little lovelies disturbs me greatly.

If I could prevail upon you to bring Coffee and M'Organ into line a bit. My longing for the smell of soft moist newly mown fur is heightened by Coffee's interminable stories of his mattress bashing conquests in Hollywood. Not one of them has a ring of truth about it. His rumpy pumpy assignation with Ruth Gordon sounded decidedly suss, if not totally depraved. It's just that I am reminded of what I have given up to win, like you promised I would take part in this event. M'Organ just sits in the corner with an inane look on his face during his hourly assignations with a K-Tel Vacuum Enlarger. Cooper? ... I don't understand a word he says. I suspect the 43 beans and 3452 secret herbs and spices in Cloaca Cola has addled his brain. The rest of them ... well I've had more productive conversations with Marcel Marceau. (AND he's a bloody FROG!!!)

Thank you for you interest, care and general God-like qualities "Not So Big Brother"

P.S. Oh, did I mention that Brian Hughes, along with George W Bush, is a God to me. I think his drawings are wonderful, and if I were to win them (which presupposes the not awfully big leap of faith that I would not be voted off) they would be immediately donated to the Louvre. I think the French would be gobsmacked within an inch of their miserable lives.

(For the benefit of all voters of the Gallic persuasion, that was a petite joke. I dearly love the French. My goodness me, my own grandfather as a mere 3 year old had his first erection gazing upon a daguerrotype of a scantilly clad Roger Vadim Brigitte Bardot.)

Because it is Sunday and the doors will be closing later this afternoon, thus isolating you from all future contact with your friend (sic) and family, Not-So-Big-Brother shall grant you access to your marsupial off-spring later today. Please use your time wisely.

Life wouldn't be so dull if there was more Coca Cola

All hail the off-beat deity that is, COCA COLA!!!! *insert sounds of awe here*. I personally rate this drink most highly in my ratings, along with Tang and Um-Bungo.

War Poem of the Day - "The Veteran" by Margaret Postgate Cole

Artist Who Hates His Father of the Day - Myself, because I am raised a compulsive liar and a fraud. DAMN YOU!

Momma of the Day - Nature

Not-So-Big-Brother Commentary:

Wey-aye man! Day three (or possibly four, I've lost track now) and all the contestants are enjoying a sunny afternoon in the garden, blissfully unaware that the doors close once and for all tomorrow neet and that two of them haven't even posted anything yet which means they'll be oop for the chop!

Terry Sedgwick is the only cellmate up and about and has been frantically posting dross in a desperate attempt to curry favour with the viewers. 'Owever, Terry has been called to the Diary Room and hasn't responded yet, meaning he might be up for eviction himself when the doors close tomorrow.

Who goes? Who stays? You decide...next week. In the meantime, there are still places available for members of the public to join if they want. But you'll 'ave to be quick. Contact me at scragends@btinternet.com for full details.